Do I Look Like Danny Ocean?
by Seazu
Summary: Sebastian's in Berlin on a job, unfortunately things don't quite go to plan and Jim is less than pleased when he returns to London. Smut/blood!kink/wounding healing/etc


"Christ, fuckin' son of a bitch. Come _on_," Sebastian muttered to himself, the words so slight of a hiss they almost didn't exist the moment they whispered from his chapped lips. He was crouched at an open window, peering through his scope at the building opposite. Waiting, just waiting. But fuck. He was running out of time and his target hadn't appeared yet. He cursed again under his breath lighting the cigarette he had perched between his lips, glancing through the scope again as he pulled the file out of his bag, flipping it open to look at the photograph again.

He took a breath, staring at the door, willing the man to come out._Sleazy scumbag bastard, do one good thing in your life and come out those fucking doors so I can shoot you and go home._ He'd been waiting for too long already. Any longer and he would miss his ride. And then he would miss his flight. Surely the beauty of Jim Moriarty's fortune was that your fucking private plane would leave whenever you wanted. Apparently not. Apparently everything had a god-damn schedule. And he was close to having his completely screwed up.

He took one long drag, blowing out smoke a little more harshly than he'd meant to, but it still managed to tumble upwards, defying gravity in beautiful cascading swirls that faded into the darkness above. There wasn't much light here, only what was coming in through the open window he was knelt at. And fuck did his knees hurt from being crouched on concrete all of this time. Stairwells were never ideal, but they were rarely used when people had the option of an escalator. This building was abandoned on the weekends, but the building across from him was not. The building across the street was some greasy strip-joint that his latest target frequented. He'd been spotted going in, but Sebastian had to wait until the crowds died down before he could take him out. The man came here every Sunday, like church. And every Sunday, at this time (or what should have been fifteen minutes ago) he went to the car-park at the back for a smoke. Like clockwork. Except this time, not so much.

He cursed to himself again before he pulled himself away from the sniper and started disassembling it. He couldn't let himself wait any longer. He couldn't afford to.

_Clink, clink, click, clink, snap, click, click._

Sebastian pulled himself off of his knees, swinging his case over his shoulder and checking his handgun over – making sure it was loaded, checking the safety was off – before he returned it to the inside pocket of the God-damn suit Moriarty had forced him into. Insisted it was necessary for this job, just in case. He supposed he may have been right in this case. Expensive enough looking that it would get him into this rich-guy titty-hole across the road without much bother. He hated the close-range work, it reminded him too much of the early days in the Army, it was messy. But then, there was always that extra little thrill that came with seeing the light go out of their eyes, up close and personal.

He pulled on the hat he'd snatched from Jim. Some silly tourist cap that had 'LONDON' scrolled across it in giant letters. Pulled down enough to mask his features from cameras above. That was the last thing he needed. This would be messy enough without his face spread across the 10 o'clock news.

He took the stairs swiftly, his _'fancy' _shoes making a pleasant little_tap, tap, tap, tap _on the rough concrete steps, echoing across the barren walls enclosing him. When he made it outside, the German air hit him sharp. The winter was harsh here, much more so than in London.

He waited for a car to pass, the only car he'd seen in a while on this street, before he crossed the road. His car, it was his car. The one that was supposed to pick him up after he'd finished the job. He made a gesture at the driver to get him to turn and go back to the strip-club's car park before he approached the doorman, pulling his hat down. The beauty of it was, killer or pervert, they all displayed the same character-traits in these situations. Either he didn't want to be recognised because he was travelling the country shooting teenage girls, or because he was some high-class politician, but no matter which, he would be covering his face and acting shifty.

"Kann ich Ihnen helfen, Sir?" the man asked at the door, the bouncer.

Sebastian was fluent enough, of course, he had to be, he travelled enough. What self-respecting boarding school didn't force all kinds of languages on its students anyway? But he let some of his English accent bleed through so he sounded like a tourist when he replied, "Ich bin auf Durchreise, geschäftlich unterwegs. Ich hatte auf ein bisschen Unterhaltung gehofft." Just on business. Just passing through, no big deal. Let me in.

The man looked him up and down before he smiled obligingly and replied, "Natürlich, Sir. Bezahlen Sie an der Tür. Guten Abend."

Sebastian's whole face flexed upwards in a smile, though only his toothy grin was visible under the shade of his cap. Jim's cap. The light was almost completely faded, it was all pollution now; flickering neon tubes overhead and horrible orange streetlamps casting ugly shadows on the world. Berlin, a land of cold hard greyness, only lessened by the graffiti that covered every flat surface; a place that seemed to have its saturation naturally cranked up in the winter months. Everything was dull and diluted and dead.

He pushed past the man at the door, which earned him a loud, "was soll'n das?" from behind the security-glass. Fuck him. By the time he moved his fat ass and did something, Sebastian would be out the back door and on his merry way. His eyes scanned the crowd as he powered through it, shoving people aside, knocking half-naked waitresses out of his way.

_Where are you, you diseased little prick…_

He made his way into the private rooms, showing little regard for the bouncer at the entrance, he had his gun pulled out once he was through the magic velvet curtain, and the man turned away as soon as he saw it. He definitely wasn't getting paid enough to risk his life for some dickhead pimp. Girls out of the room were screaming and scattering, more appearing as the screams grew. Like a swarm of bees, only not as easy to swat away.

"Wo ist er?" he demanded, throwing one of the girls against a wall in the narrow hall, gun in one hand, photo in the other. She was in tears before he had finished the sentence, but managed to stutter something and point to a room across the hall. He smirked and dropped his hold on her before he looked around him one more time and burst into the room with the gun pointed ahead of him, arm's length, slightly bent at the elbows. The door slammed against the wall and started closing again with the sheer explosion of his entrance.

"Alter! Was ist los? Was ist das?" The man, his target was half naked and tied up. Finally, something in his favour. _I guess this explains why you didn't make it out for your regular smoke you fat prick._

He smirked, and stepped aside from the door with a nod, letting his slut run out screaming. He was still yelling but it was fairly unintelligible at this point.

"Still jetzt," Sebastian said with a smile, approaching him steadily until he was just a few feet away, gun trained on his third eye. "Zeit zum schlafen."

The man was struggling, starting to cry out and scream something before Sebastian just said, "Jim Moriarty sends his regards," and he cocked the pistol and pulled the trigger. The bang was explosive, he hadn't brought a silencer. And he was, of course, coated in blood. Again, perfect.

There was a similar bang sounding from behind him, and Sebastian turned in question to see the security guard. And he stared at him, following his line of sight to his own shoulder and he frowned at the blood starting to pool there. He rolled his eyes cursing before he fired at the security too with his opposite arm steadying the gun. He was going to be fucking _pissed _once the adrenaline and shock wore off and he could actually feel that. Because fuck that. _This _was why he hated these bloody jobs when he had to get up-close.

His getaway was swift, the back-door to the carpark was the door at the end of the private hallway, and the car was ready and waiting for him when he got there. The driver wouldn't question the blood, never would, he had a job just like Sebastian. The rest of it was such a rush he barely had the time to wipe the blood-spray off of his face until he got a bit of time on the plane, but even then it was a short flight. It just afforded him enough time to barter someone for a jacket to wear over his suit, because he had no other clothes and no other way to hide the blood.

Fuck.

Why did Jim insist he look so fucking fancy when he was working? It was impractical. This wasn't Reservoir Dogs or Oceans 11. This was life. _Real _life. He couldn't suit-up for killing.

He had been late the whole way. This one time his target decides to break the pattern and everything gets thrown off. Jim would be pissed… because he hadn't had time to call and let him know the deed was done, and that he was coming home with a filthy-ass suit that he had royally fucked up. He probably wouldn't give a shit about the fact that there was a hole in his arm though. No, that was fine. That was a risk he took when he signed up for the job. Bloody southern Leprechaun bastard.

He'd have to go straight to the flat when he got back. Luckily it would be the early hours of the morning, London would be mostly dead apart from all of the weirdos, and he would fit right in, no questions asked. If he was really lucky, Jim would be passed out somewhere from lack of sleep.

Another car was waiting for him by the plane when he landed back in London. One that took him without question back to the flat. Of course everything was arranged perfectly on Jim's end. Jim would have the decency to step outside for a smoke when he was supposed to and not hold up his assassin. Selfish German bastard.

Sebastian hoisted the bag onto his good shoulder as he climbed out of the car. He looked up to the top window as he headed for the door, and yes, the light was on. Which meant Jim was still up and about and probably looking his head on a platter. It was a quick walk to the front door, no one really noticed how bloodied he was; and he hated travelling like this, it was always a risk, and yet he was doing it just so he could make it back here sooner. Make it back to the angry little man with his dark, dark eyes sooner. There was logic in there somewhere.

For a moment before he opened the door to the flat he almost thought it might be possible that Jim wouldn't give a shit. Of course, this theory came crashing down when he walked in to see Jim in the living-room pouring over his laptop with the TV on in the background. See this wouldn't be a problem, if he couldn't distinctly hear German newscasters speaking. And also, the giveaway could have been the way Jim's head slowly rotated to give him a dry, raging stare. He tried on his most charming smile but it didn't quite cut through the thick intensity of those dark eyes, and it faltered and faded. His jaw clenched as he prepared for the inevitable, turning his back (against all instinct) to close the door and drop down his bag.

_May as well welcome hell_, he thought as he shrugged off the overcoat he'd bargained off someone, letting it fall to the floor, as limp as his right arm. And for a moment Jim Moriarty's face twisted with absolute malice, before he shook his head and decided to focus on one problem at a time.

"Have you seen this?" he asked sharply, pointing at the screen of his laptop.

Sebastian took a breath and walked close enough to get a good look at the screen. The television was muted, and the German voices were coming from his computer, from a news-channel he had playing. A live piece about a "slaughtering" at a nightclub in Berlin. Sebastian made a frustrated noise and rolled his eyes, "I wouldn't call it a slaughtering…"

Jim turned to stare at him with that same intense gaze and the corner of his thin little mouth turned down with contempt, "there was a witness – several in fact – but one who claims they can ID you. Since when are you so sloppy?" His words were sharp like daggers, harsh metallic but so slow and dark; it made Sebastian's face revert to its fall-back position: a blank canvas he would wear in the Army, the face that would fall on him when he was hunting or when he was being confronted in prison. Jim saw it straight-away and brought a sharp slap across Sebastian's cheek to bring him away from it. "No," he said just as cutting, "don't go hiding behind that mask. Give me an explanation. Who is she? I told you no witnesses."

Sebastian's eyes remained filled with steely resolve, even as his gaze moved from Jim back to the screen. And there she was, talking, blubbering down a microphone. The stripper he had pressed against the wall to find his target. His face covered by the hat in the security footage they were showing as they got it, but she could see him.

"They won't be able to pin it on me, I won't even be a suspect."

"No, you won't. But only because you have _me _to cover your tracks."

Sebastian paused, to take a breath, clenching and unclenching his jaw, trying to keep calm, trying not to say, 'you know there's a fucking hole in my arm, right? I literally can't feel my hand anymore'. Instead he nodded curtly, "it won't happen again, sir."

Jim's eyes moved over him before he picked on his next button topic, "you know those suits cost _actual _money, don't you?"

Sebastian nodded, "all due respect, I didn't want to wear it on a job in the first place."

Those half-lidded eyes blinked so slowly in response Sebastian hadn't been certain they would open again. "Does it hurt?" he asked eventually, and he was being abnormally patient. So Sebastian was cautious when he shrugged, only one shoulder responding to the call. Jim nodded knowingly and took a hold of Sebastian's hand, tugging him towards the couch to sit him down before he disappeared somewhere. It was eerie how silently the man could move. He was back in the room before Sebastian even had time to process it and his eyes snapped up to Jim's. He was carrying the first aid kit. Seriously? This was a fucking bullet-wound. But Christ. This was how Jim dealt with him when he came home in this state. When he'd screwed something up. There was occasionally a tenderness that appeared in him, like a little boy finding an injured bird; wanting to protect it and fix it and bring it back to health. It didn't happen often, but he could see that sense coming into Jim's eyes. It would be better than the alternative: Jim feeling like the little boy who found an injured bird and decided the best thing to do would be to put it out of its misery. That was _not_ a look you wanted to spot in his eyes.

It was so dark outside that when he looked in the window he could only see the reflection of the room, and just a lamp in the corner provided a warm orange glow which protected the living-room from the darkness outside. But there was nothing to protect it from the darkness _inside_. German voices still buzzed in the background, he really had screwed up. And he owed Moriarty for what he would do to save his ass. It should have been so simple, Jim wasn't expecting him to fuck up tonight, but he had.

Sebastian looked a little shocked when Jim helped him shrug off the jacket and proceeded to rip the sleeve off of his shirt to get a look at the wound. He looked up at him, "it was ruined anyway. Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of a white shirt?" and something about that southern-Irish lilt made the sentence sound almost sexual. However the hell Jim Moriarty managed that, he was a God among men for it.

He raised an eyebrow, because yes, he did know how hard it was. It was the exact reason he chose to wear black when he was out on the job. It was why he hated trying to get it out of Jim's clothes and resolving to bringing it to the dry-cleaners and making up some horrible excuse for why his clothes were covered in blood. And _then _of course having to find a different dry-cleaner every damn time because they would get suspicious otherwise. Christ, when did he become Jim's fucking maid?

There was a bubble of blood as he tensed his arm, and he looked across to his shoulder and the dark little wound Jim was examining. "You left the bullet in?"

Sebastian regarded Jim with exasperation, "yeah, I left my good bullet-tweezers at home, unfortunately."

Jim was chewing on his lip slightly as he fiddled through the case he'd brought in with him. He was crouched on the seat beside Sebastian on the couch, and despite the time of night, and despite seeing what Sebastian had done to his _own _suit that night, he had opted to remain in his own. Westwood, he was sure.

But Sebastian frowned as Jim let the case drop from his hands, let it slide towards the back of the couch. And he kept his eyes focused on Sebastian's, with such a heated stare that he couldn't even begin to guess the dark thoughts burrowing away at the inside of the other man's mind. One hand gripping his forearm, the other gripping at his collar… he watched Jim bring his lips to the wound, eyes never glancing away, barely even blinking as they wrapped around the bullet-hole tight as a vacuum and he started to suck. And there was something so profoundly erotic about it, the slurping and slight gagging as he tried not to choke on his blood… it made Sebastian's cock twitch.

He pulled up when Sebastian flinched, as the bullet was unlatched and Jim spat it out across the room. And they stayed, eyes locked for what felt like an eternity before Sebastian ripped Jim towards him. He could taste the warm copper taste, feel the thick soft heat as it dripped from his lips and as it passed from Jim's mouth to Sebastian's. And it should revolt him by all means, but there was just something so fucking hot about seeing Jim messed up and bloodied; this man who always looked perfect and put-together, who took such pride in his appearance, was going to be covered in Sebastian's blood.

Because he would be. They both would be. It was running more freely now that the bullet was out, it needed stitched up but they were both a little busy for that right then. This could go on until he passed out and died. But Jim seemed to know that as he finally pulled away. He looked like he had just killed and eaten a stag. He looked like a fucking wolf or a lion or some crazy shit after a hunt. He wondered if he looked much the same, if not paler from blood-loss.

He had a needle and thread. He had some bottle of rubbing alcohol too and… right this was going to hurt. But considering the situation, considering where it had been and where it seemed likely to go, it would only be more of a turn-on. Jim was hardly known for being a gentle lover, and Sebastian was much in the same. They could destroy cities when they were together.

Sebastian's spare hand was undoing his belt, pulling the zip down so he could reach under the waist of his boxers to clutch onto his cock, tight and rough waiting for Jim to start sewing him up. And fuck Jim had positioned himself in such a way that Sebastian's other arm was now acting like a climbing-post for Jim, his legs wrapped around it as he knelt beside him, his hand pretty much at his dick. But he'd lost most of the feeling in it anyway. Though as Jim started to stitch, and Sebastian jerked off to the pain and that intense, bloody stare of Jim's; Jim started to grind against Sebastian's arm, making the faintest little mewling noises as he did so. _Fuck._

His breathing was hard and jittering, not at all like him, but there was just too much fucking stimulus right then. He swore Jim was purposefully taking his time, purposefully pulling the needle through his flesh so slowly after the initial sting of the alcohol to wash it out. Too deep to be washed out really, but he wasn't going to complain, not when Jim's half-erect dick was rubbing against his arm, still too-trapped under the confines of his suit. A suit that he was bloodying up all by himself. And the couch, and what was left of Sebastian's…

They were covered in his, and the German's blood – though that was dried in now. Sebastian was just becoming overwhelmed with the lust to make Jim bleed. He wanted to taste him in so many ways. He wanted to fuck him up, fuck the flat up, fuck his stupid suits and perfect hair and jet black stare up and make him broken and useless. He wanted to take him over and empty him out and fill him up. And that's what he was thinking when Jim finished, and he pulled him off of his arm and ripped down his trousers. It's what was running through his head while he rubbed his hand through the blood on his arm and used it as lube to start jerking Jim off, just to hear those little noises he made when he was aroused.

There was a mess of moans and gasps and panting as the two men became so consumed with animalistic passion and lust for eachother that they stormed the apartment. Biting and scratching until they broke flesh, leaving their mark, an _imprint _on one another. Sucking and fucking and biting and licking. They didn't need lube, they had blood and spit and come and tears. A madness overtook them, so beyond the norm, pushing eachother past all barriers and expectations.

The place looked like a fucking war-zone when they'd finished.

Nothing left untainted by their act.

Nothing but proof of their passions.

Nothing but fatigue stopping them from doing it all over again.


End file.
